Soti£(s and Lyrics 



TENNYSON 



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ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
From a photograph 



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Son^s and Lyrics 




The Old 
Press- 




Greeks 

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Boston 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two OoQles ReeelvoO 
APh 20 1907 

OLASS A KXCi No. 
COPY B. 



)V7 



COPYRIGHT, 1907 
BY SHERWIN CODY 



^ CONTENTS 

A 

Tennyson, Life 7 



Songs and Lyrics. 

Lilian 25 

The Lady of Shalott 26 

Mariana in the South 32 

Lady Clara Vere De Vere 36 

The May Queen 38 

The Lotos-Eaters 48 

The Goose 55 

Morte D'Arthur 57 

Ulysses 67 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 69 

Locksley Hall 71 

Break, Break, Break 85 

Songs from "The Princess" 86 

Ring Out, Wild Bells — from "In Memoriam'". . . 91 

Come into the Garden, Maud — from "Maud" 93 

Song of the Brook 96 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. . . 98 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 107 

Northern Farmer ; Old Style 109 

Northern Farmer ; New Style 114 

The Higher Pantheism 119 

Tlower in the Crannied Wall' 120 

Rizpah 123 

Crossing the Bar 127 



TENNYSON 

The greatest thing in poetry is the comfort it 
gives the human heart. It comes like a friend into 
the inner sanctuary of the soul, with its throbbing 
love, its calming philosophy, and its revelation of 
God and eternity. Nothing else can do this so 
completely as literature, and poetry, the highest form 
of literature. 

Poetry is like music, and also like painting. Like 
music it rolls like the rolling of the waves, or 
murmurs like the wind among the trees, or rolls 
and murmurs and whispers all at the same time, like 
a beautiful summer's day when all the birds are 
singing and the sun is shining and the flowers 
are blooming, and the sky is blue, and the air is 
soft and warm. Like painting it reproduces the blue 
sky, the delicate green leaves, the long sweep of 
the waves, and the dew-drops on the grass in the 
morning sunlight. 

Tennyson was the greatest modern master of the 
technique of music in words and beautiful pictures 
in words. Like Paderewski he learned to touch 
the keys of language and produce an infinite variety 
of pleasing, beautiful sounds ; and beyond any painter 
he could with words weave exquisitely perfect and 
entrancing images and scenes, that were like a 
mosaic of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, 
reproducing violets, roses, long, lush ferns, stately 
trees, and still fairer women and heroic men. 
7 



8 TENNYSON 

Born an Aristocrat. 

Alfred Tennyson was the son of an English 
clergjonan in moderate circumstances, born August 
6, 1829. His was the eldest branch of a respectable 
family, but the money had been left away from it. 
A clergyman in England, holding a living given by 
a noble family, is usually an aristocrat, and Tenny- 
son was an aristocrat to the backbone. He scorned 
money-making work, he disliked crowds and com- 
mon people, and he was proud of his handsome 
figure and dark face, his Inverness cape, and broad- 
brimmed "wide-a-wake" hat. Among his valued 
friends were Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's hus- 
band, and other members of the royal family; and 
in the end, after he had three times refused a 
baronetcy, he was made a baron and became a mem- 
ber of the House of Lords. 

Burns was a natural poet, and sang love-songs 
because he loved and couldn't help it. Burns made 
little money from his verse, and soon died. Tenny- 
son, on the other hand, was a professional poet, he 
deliberately chose poetry as his life work, learned 
to write poetry by hard study, never did anything 
that was wrong, or rude, or passionate, and in the 
end made a large fortune by his writing. 

As a boy he had a natural talent for sonorous, 
rolling words, and he had a real genius for weaving 
beautiful images in words. Mrs. Bradley informs 
us he said to her, "The first poetry that moved 
me was my own at five years. When I was eight, 
I remember making a line I thought grander than 
Campbell, or Byron, or Scott. I rolled it out, it was 



LIFE 9 

this: 'With slanderous sons of thunder rolled the 
flood' — great nonsense of course, but I thought it 
fine." 

Literary From Childhood. 

At twelve we find him writing a letter to his 
aunt, filled with a learned literary criticism on 
"Samson Agonistes." At the same age he says 
"Pope's Homer's Iliad became a favourite of mine 
and I wrote hundreds and hundreds of lines in the 
regular Popeian metre, nay even could improvise 
them. So could my two elder brothers, for my 
father was a poet and could write regular metre 
very skilfully." 

When Alfred Tennyson was between fifteen and 
seventeen and his brother Charles a year older they 
wrote a number of poems which a bookseller in 
Louth, named Jackson, bought for twenty pounds 
($100) and published under the title of "Poems 
by Two Brothers." They were wonderfully musical 
and poetical for the work of such boys, but of 
course they lacked that "comfort to the heart" 
which causes a poem to be read and remembered 
in future years. 

He went to Cambridge University, where in June, 
1829, it was announced that he had won the prize 
medal for his poem in blank verse on '"Timbuctoo." 
The next year Effingham Wilson, who published 
Browning's Paracelsus, brought out Tennyson's first 
regular volume, entitled "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical.'* 
In this volume were a few poems like "Mariana" 
which are still popular, but as compared with his 
later work it was very poor. With all his talents 



10 TENNYSON 

he had to learn to write poetry. The same work, 
with some other good poems such as "The Miller's 
Daughter," "Palace of Art," and ''Dream of Fair 
Women," was republished two years later. But 
these volumes were savagely attacked in one of the 
staid old British quarterlies, and on the whole 
made no more impression than the work of any 
minor poet. It was ten years before he published 
again ; but in that time he had learned to write 
poetry, and the two volumes of 1843 established 
his reputation. 

His Famous Friends. 

Tennyson had several brothers and sisters, and at 
Cambridge he was a member of a little coterie of 
friends called "the Apostles," which was indeed a 
regular debating society. Among them were John 
Kemble, brother of Fanny Kemble the actress^ 
James Spedding, Trench (afterward Archbishop), 
Alford (afterwards the famous Dean Alford), Milnes 
(later Lord Houghton). But his one intimate and 
deeply loved friend was Arthur Henry Hallam, a 
son of the great historian Henry Hallam. Arthur 
Hallam became engaged to marry Tennyson's sister 
Emily, who had '"eyes with depth on depths," and 
"a profile like that on a coin," "testa Romana," as 
an old Italian said of her. Hallam seems to have 
been an extremely brilliant young man, and his 
death at twenty-three not only broke the heart of 
the beautiful Emily, but caused Tennyson to write 
"In Memoriam," one of the four great elegies of 
English poetry. 



LIFE 11 

Alfred had left Cambridge at the wish of his 
mother, and soon after he returned home his 
father died, in March, 1831. Each member of the 
family had his or her small portion, after the English 
custom, enough to support them together in a quiet 
and secluded way. Alfred's portion seems to have 
been a small farm at Grasby, and five hundred 
pounds ($2,500) in cash. His first volume of poems 
had been published, and the next year he pubHshed 
the second. He felt that he was a poet, and he 
made up his mind to devote his life to literature. 
His friends would doubtless have liked him to be 
a clergyman, or to undertake at least some more 
practical kind of writing. With his small income of 
only a few hundred dollars a year he could never 
marry, and what was worse still, it seemed doubt- 
ful whether poetry could ever give him much social 
distinction or public honor. 

He Chooses Poetry as a Profession. 

In a money-getting age, among a money-making 
people, it seems as if the only measure of success 
were money. Every young man looks forward to 
some sort of business or professional career, and we 
look on the stay-at-homes as milksops, the senti- 
mental failures of life. Most of them are. But 
there is something decidedly nobler than making a 
comfortable income to which a well-educated man 
with good intellectual gifts may look forward. 
It is that of public service, of making the world hap- 
pier, more human, even more divine, — for it is 
bringing the divine out of the recesses in which it is 



12 TENNYSON 

too often buried in the average man and woman. 
When a milksop makes this an excuse for his idle- 
ness and inefficiency, he deserves our contempt. 
When a really gifted man thus deliberately chooses 
to ignore money and a "career," so called, he merits 
our highest admiration. 

What is more, for ten years Tennyson did not 
seem to be trying very hard to work out his career 
as a poet. It may have seemed to some of his 
friends that he was wasting the best years of his 
life. Until 1837 he and his mother and sisters con- 
tinued to live at the rectory where his father had 
died. Alfred went up to London now and then, and 
now and then he visited Cambridge. He made 
other unimportant journeys. He had few friends 
and sought no new ones. He contributed a poem 
now and then anonymously to some magazine, but 
for this he did not seem to care. It appeared to 
him rather a cheap way of getting before the public. 
He did make and cultivate the acquaintance of Car- 
lyle, who though no admirer of poets in general, 
became a great admirer and warm personal friend 
of Tennyson. 

His first volumes had been scornfully reviewed, 
but he determined that anything he published in the 
future should be treated with respect. In those 
years he says he "wreaked himself upon expression." 
While apparently idle, he worked continuously. He 
was making himself master of the technique of 
poetry. The death of Arthur Hallam, with its 
bitter and saddening eflfect on his sister Emily as 
well as upon himself, turned his thought inward, 



LIFE 13 

upon his own soul, his religion, and the relation 
of God to the world. He began to write short 
poems upon this subject, one at a time. He kept 
them in a "butcher-like" book, and read them to 
his friends. They were known as his "elegies." 
Once he was careless enough to leave the book in 
a lodging house in London where he stopped for a 
time, and where in a closet a friend of his found 
it a fortnight after he left. The loss of it perhaps 
would not have mattered much, for he could usually 
remember all his poems. He lost the manuscript 
of "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical," and rewrote it all from 
memory. 

Hallam Tennyson says, "My father's poems were 
generally based on some single phrase like 'Some- 
one had blundered' : and were rolled about, so to 
speak, in his head, before he wrote them down: 
hence they did not slip easily from his memory." 

Love and Marriage. 

Tennyson had his love affair, too. In 1830 the 
Sellwoods had driven over from Horncastle to 
Somersby Rectory to call, and Arthur Hallam, who 
was visiting them, had asked Emily Sellwood to 
walk with him in the Fairy Wood. "At a turn of 
the path," writes Hallam Tennyson in his life of the 
poet, "they came upon my father, who, at sight of 
the slender beautiful girl of seventeen in her simple 
gray dress, moving 'like a light across those wood- 
land ways,' suddenly said to her, 'Are you a Dryad 
or an Oread wandering here?'" 

Five years later Tennyson's brother Charles mar- 



14 TENNYSON 

ried Emil SelUvood's youngest sister Louisa, and 
Emily was bridesmaid. She now seemed even love- 
lier, and of course after the marriage of Charles 
and Louisa, Emily and Alfred saw much more of 
each other. There was a quasi engagement to marry, 
but as Alfred had no prospect of getting money 
enough to support a wife, they ceased to correspond 
in 1840, and it was not until 1S50, when Tennyson 
had an income of five hundred pounds ($3,500) a 
year from his books that they came together again 
and were married, making an extremely happy and 
devoted couple. We can but reflect what a well- 
regulated love it was, however, that could be held 
calmly in abeyance for ten years, while his reputa- 
tion and income grew sufficiently large for respec- 
tability. 

In 1837 Tennyson moved with his mother from 
Somersby to Epping Forest, where they were nearer 
London. In 1840 they went to Tunbridge Wells, 
and the next year to Boxley, near Maidstone. The 
poet proved his practical good judgment in furnish- 
ing the house, for they say he "did not even forget 
the kitchen utensils : and that throughout the furni- 
ture was pretty and inexpensive." 

Life in London. 

Tennyson now went often to London where "a 
perfect dinner was a beefsteak, a potato, a cut of 
cheese, a pint of porter, and afterwards a pipe 
(never a cigar). When joked with by his friends 
about his liking for cold salt beef and new potatoes 
he would answer humorously, 'All fine-natured men 



LIFE lb 

know what is good to eat.' Very genial evenings 
they were, with plenty of anecdote and wit and 
'thrust and parry of bright monostitch/ " He saw 
Carlyle, Rogers, "Barry Cornwall," Thackeray, Dick- 
ens, Forster, Savage Landor, Maclise the artist, 
Leigh Hunt, and Tom Campbell. Carlyle drew the 
following life-like portrait of Tennyson for Emer- 
son in America: 

''Alfred is one of the few British and foreign 
figures (a not increasing number, I think) who are 
and remain beautiful to me, a true human soul, or 
some authentic approximation thereto, to whom your 
own soul can say, 'Brother!' However, I doubt 
he will not come (to see me) ; he often skips me in 
his brief visits to town; skips ever3^body, indeed; 
being a man solitary and sad, as certain men are, 
dwelling in an element of gloom, carrying a bit of 
chaos about him, in short, which he is manufacturing 
into Cosmos. * * He had his breeding at Cam- 
bridge, as if for the Law or Church; being master 
of a small annuity on his father's decease, he pre- 
ferred clubbing with his mother and some sisters, 
to live unpromoted and write Poems. In this way 
he lives still, now here, now there ; the family always 
within reach of London, never in it; he himself 
making rare and brief visits, lodging in some old 
comrade's rooms. I think he must be forty, not 
much under it (he was really thirty-three). One of 
the finest looking men in the world. A great shock 
of rough dusky dark hair; bright, laughing, hazel 
eyes ; massive aquiline face, most massive yet most 
delicate ; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian- 



16 TENNYSON 

looking; clothes cynically loose, free-and-easy, smokes 
infinite tobacco. His voice is musical, metallic, fit 
for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that 
may lie between; speech and speculation free and 
plenteous ; I do not meet in these late decades 
such company over a pipe! We shall see what he 
will grow to." 

Mrs. Carlyle describes him: "He is a very hand- 
some man, and a noble-hearted one, with something 
of the g>psy in his appearance, which for me is 
perfectly charming. Babbie never saw him, unfor- 
tunately, or perhaps I should say fortunately, for 
she must have fallen in love with him on the spot, 
unless she be made absolutely of ice ; and then men 
of genius have never anything to keep wives upon."* 

Thus in the ten years of silence Tennyson's repu- 
tation had been growing under ground. He did not 
become intimate with Carlyle till after 1842, since 
Carlyle was "naturally prejudiced against one whom 
every one was praising, and praising for a sort of 
poetry which he despised. But directly he saw and 
heard the Man, he knew there was a man to deal 
with and took pains to cultivate him ; assiduously ex- 
horting him to leave Verse and Rhyme and to apply 
his genius to Prose." (Thus speaks Edward Fitz- 
gerald, translator of Omar Khayyam, and one of Ten- 
nyson's most intelligent friends.) 



*"Tennyson is tall and broad-shouldered as a son of Anak, 
with hair, beard, and eyes of southern darkness. Something 
in the lofty brow and aquiline nose suggests Dante, but such 
a deep mellow chest-voice never could have come from 
Italian lungs." 



LIFE n 

The Book That Made His Reputation. 

In 1842 the long-delayed volumes appeared, with 
such notable poems as "Locksley Hall," "Morte 
d'Arthur," "Ulysses," 'The Two Voices," "Sir 
Launcelot and Queen Guinevere," and "Break, Break, 
Break!" They were hailed by the reviewers as 
the work of a great poet, and Tennyson's reputa- 
tion was established. His popularity also began. 

In 1844 he became interested in a plan of a Dr. 
Allen to carve furniture by machinery, and sold his 
estate at Grasby, putting the proceeds and all his 
ready money into the undertaking. It proved a fail- 
ure and for a time he was left almost destitute. 
His brother-in-law, however, insured Dr. Allen's 
life for a part of the debt, and in the next year 
Dr. Allen died. At the same time Tennyson was 
given a government pension of two hundred pounds 
a year. It was given by Robert Peel on the recom- 
mendation of Lord Houghton (Milnes) who was 
fond of relating this story : 

" 'Richard Milnes,' said Carlyle one day, with- 
drawing his pipe from his mouth, as they were 
seated together in the little house in Cheyne Row, 
'when are you going to get that pension for Alfred 
Tennyson?' 

"'My dear Carlyle,' responded Milnes, 'the thing 
is not so easy as you seem to suppose. What 
will my constituents say if I do get the pension 
for Tennyson? They know nothing about him or 
his poetry, and they will probably think he is some 
poor relation of my own, and that the whole affair 
is a job.' 



18 TENNYSON 

"Solemn and emphatic was Carlyle's response. 
'Richard Milnes, on the Day of Judgment, when the 
Lord asks you why you didn't get that pension 
for Alfred Tennyson, it will not do to lay the blame 
on your constituents : it is you that will be damned." 

Bulwer Lytton attacked Tennyson because Peel 
put him on the pension list, and Tennyson answered 
with a satire in Punch entitled "The New Tinion 
and the Poets"; but the two lived to be friends. 

The fourth edition of the poems appeared in 
1846, but it was not until 1847, five years after their 
first appearance that Tennyson came out with "The 
Princess," a sort of philosophic satire on the higher 
education of women. The wonderful songs which 
we now value most were not at first in it. They 
were inserted in the third edition, published three 
years later, 1S50. 

"The Princess" may have been an extremely in- 
teresting contribution to the discussion of the higher 
education of women in 1847, and in detail it is a 
beautifully wrought poem, but it is heavy reading 
to-day. 

*Tn Memoriam,' on which Tennyson had been 
at work for nearly twenty years, was finally pub- 
lished in 1850, and was doubtless the cause of his 
being appointed poet-laureate to succeed Words- 
worth. It is an exquisite and finely wrought poem, 
and has comforted many a human heart, though its 
philosophy is neither very profound nor very orig- 
inal, and its succeeding lyrics have been described as 
'"sounding corridors that lead to nowhere." 



LIFE 19 

An Assured Income from His Poems. 

"In Memoriam," was first privately printed, and 
Moxon, Tennyson's publisher, agreed to guarantee 
him five hundred pounds a year from his poems 
if this new book could be added to the list. This 
made it possible for Tennyson to marry. He and 
Emily Sellwood came together again, and were mar- 
ried. Moxon advanced three hundred pounds, and 
they were married on the thirteenth of June, the 
month in which "In Memoriam" was published. 
"The wedding was of the quietest (even the cake 
and the dresses arriving too late), which made my 
father say, to the amusement of those who were 
present, that it was 'the nicest wedding' he had ever 
been at. In after-life he said : 'The peace of God 
came into my life before the altar when I wedded 
her.'" She was a niece of Sir John Franklin, the 
arctic explorer, and a woman of unusual intellectual 
and social accomplishments. Says the son, "To her 
and to no one else he referred for a final criticism 
of his work before publishing.'' "It was she who 
shielded his sensitive spirit from the annoyances 
and trials of life, answering (for example) the in- 
numerable letters addressed to him from all parts 
of the world. By her quiet sense of humor, by her 
selfless devotion, by 'her faith as clear as the heights 
of the June-blue heaven,' she helped him also to 
the utmost in the hours of his depression and of his 
sorrow; and to her he wrote two of the most 
beautiful of his shorter lyrics. 



20 TENNYSON 

"Maud." 

The first important poem Tennyson wrote after 
his marriage was ''Maud." It is a series of beau- 
tiful love lyrics, culminating in "Come into the 
garden, Maud," and one cannot help feeling that it 
expressed the happiness of his relations with his 
wife, as in a more direct way "In Memoriam," 
expressed the melancholy sorrow for the loss of his 
friend Arthur Hallam. A poet never really tells the 
outward facts of his life in his work, and it is im- 
possible for a biographer to gather any trustworthy 
facts from works of art. The tragic second part of 
Maud may be nothing more than a reflection of Ten- 
nyson's terror at the loss of his wife's love after 
he had won it, — perhaps the separation for ten years 
before their marriage. Or it may have nothing what- 
ever to do with her at all. 

As a matter of fact, Maud was written backward, 
the plan originating in a suggestion of Sir John 
Simeon that he weave a story about a little poem 
he published in The Keepsake, "O, that 'twere pos- 
sible," now section IV of the second part of "Maud." 
The story that he wove is as tragic and pathetic as 
the story of "In Memoriam," and it is the most 
passionate treatment of love for a woman which 
we find in Tennyson.* 

*Writes Aubrey de Vere, "It had struck him, in conse- 
quence, I think, of a suggestion made by Sir John Simeon, 
that, to render the poem fully intelligible, a preceding one 
was necessary. He wrote it; the second poem, too, required 
a predecessor; and thus the whole work was written, as it 
were, backwards." 

"Up to the time of my father's death, when his friends 
asked him to read aloud from his own poetry, he generally 
chose 'Maud,' the 'Ode on the Duke of Wellington,' and 
'Guinevere.' " — Hallam Tennyson. 



LIFE 21 

With the money that "Maud" gave them, they 
bought Fairingford, in the Isle of Wight, where 
Tennyson lived the latter half of his life. The 
newly married couple had wandered about from 
place to place to find a home, and at last decided 
on this place largely because of a beautiful view of 
the blue English channel through a notch in the 
trees and cliffs. That view from one of the win- 
dows was a constant delight to them through all the 
years and we find many references to it. 

Tennyson never gave up Fairingford, but he made 
another home at Aldworth, and he was created 
"Baron of Aldworth and Fairingford." He went 
from Fairingford to Aldworth usually about the first 
of July, and the fine air there effectually cured him 
of his summer hay-fever. Aubrey de Vere says, 
"Fairingford he never forsook, though he added an- 
other home to it; and assuredly no poet has ever 
before called two such residences his own." 
Bayard Taylor describes Fairingford as "a cheerful 
{jray country mansion with a small thick-grassed 
park before it, a grove behind it, and beyond all, a 
deep shoulder of the chalk downs, a gap in which, 
at Freshwater, showed the dark blue horizon of the 
channel." 

Children were born. The first died before it even 
breathed, but the second was Hallam, the present 
Lord Tennyson, and after him, came Lionel, who 
grew up and married and finally died of the jungle 
fever on his way home from India. 

"From the first," writes Mrs. Tennyson, "Alfred 
watched Hallam with interest ! Some of his acquaint- 



22 TENNYSON 

ances would have smiled to see him racing up and 
down stairs and dandling the baby in his arms." 
When a name was being discussed for Hallam Ten- 
nyson some one suggested "Alfred," when the Poet 
exclaimed, "What if he should turn out a fool !" 

After 1850 Tennyson's life was one of the most 
enviable that can be imagined. He was poet laureate 
and had a large and increasing income from his 
poems. He was happy in his home, and all the 
world delighted to honor him. The Brownings vis- 
ited him and often wrote to him, especially Mrs. 
Browning. Gladstone was his friend and admirer. 
Queen Victoria had a profound and tender admira- 
tion for him. 

The chief work of his years of fame was his 
"Idylls of the King," a subject he had long ago be- 
gun to study and interpret in his "Morte d' Arthur," 
"Launcelot and Guinevere," etc. He retold the stories 
with all the music and exquisite color of his poet's 
art. They were entertaining and ennobling ro- 
mances, but they did not contain the profound alle- 
gory of life which some imagine they did. 

Toward the end of his life he wrote several plays 
in which Henry Irving acted many times, especially 
"The Cup" and "Becket" ; but it is generally ad- 
mitted that Tennyson was not a dramatist. His 
talent was chiefly descriptive and sonorous. 

Tennyson disliked popularity, yet he was one of 
the most popular of modern poets. He alone made 
a fortune from his work. Longfellow has probably 
been more widely read, but he was the poet of .the 
people, and less money was paid for his books. As 



LIFE 23 

Tennyson was the great aristocrat, he was the great 
democrat. Tennyson was a master of harmony and 
of imagery, comparable only to the great sym- 
phonies of Beethoven. Longfellow was a singer 
of simple and tender melodies. Tennyson is doubt- 
less the greater poet, but Longfellow will be loved 
by millions more. 

And Tennyson in turn must take his rank below 
Wordsworth and Shelley and Browning, the great 
original poets, who thought Tennyson's thoughts 
before he did himself, and, for the few, really pene- 
trated life. Tennyson was not a thinker, except as 
he understood and interpreted the thoughts of his 
time, scientific as well as philosophic. For the mass 
of educated people he has been the interpreter of 
the greater poets, whose best thoughts he repro- 
duced in language which they could love, with a 
musical movement and a richness of language which 
were all his own, and which I believe will make him 
immortal. 

Tennyson died October 7, 1892, and was buried in 
the Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. 

Sherwin Cody. 



SONGS AND LYRICS 

LILIAN. 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me. 

Cruel little Lilian. 

II 

When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks: 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple 

From beneath her gathered wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 

Till the Kghtning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks 

Then away she flies. 



TENNYSON 

III 
Prythee weep, May Lilian t 

Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lillian; 

Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
Prythee weep, May Lilian! 

IV 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 
And up and down the people go. 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 



LADY OF SHALOTT 27 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle embowers 
The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot; 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers ' 'T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott/ 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 



28 TENNYSON 

She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot; 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot ; 



LADY OF SHALOTT 

Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed: 
'I am half sick of shadows/ said 
The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy, 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot; 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-je weird shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 
As he rode down to Camelot; 



30 TENNYSON 

As often thro" the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
'Tirra lirra,' by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror cracked from side to side; 
'The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 



LADY OF SHALOTT 31 

Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about her prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



32 TENNYSON 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high. 

Silent into Camelot, 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, 'She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott.' 

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet. 

The house thro' all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines ; 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 
But 'Ave Mary,' made she moan, 

And 'Ave Mary,' night and morn, 
And 'Ah,' she sang, 'to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 33 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 
And 'Ave Mary,' was her moan 

'Madonna, sad is night and morn.' 
And 'Ah,' she sang, 'to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, 'Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load.' 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

'Is this the form,' she made her moan, 

'That won his praises night and morn?' 
And 'Ah,' she said, 'but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 

But day increased from heat to heat, 
On stony drought and steaming salt; 



34 TENNYSON 

Till now at noon she slept again, 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She thought, "My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream; 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke ; the babble of the stream 
Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
'Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 

And rising, from her bosom drew 
Old letters, breathing of her worth, 

For 'Love,' they said, 'must needs be true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth.' 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say 
'But now thy beauty flows away, 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 35 

So be alone for evermore.' 

'O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, 

'And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end, to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?' 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

'But thou shalt be alone no more.' 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

The day to night,' she made her moan, 
'The day to night, the night to morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 
Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres 
Heaven over heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

The night comes on that knows not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 



3« TENNYSON 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Qara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown: 

You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
I saw the snare, and I retired; 

The daughter of a hundred earls, 
You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For, were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 37 

O, your sweet eyes, your low replies! 
A great enchantress you may be; 
But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 
That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall; 
The guilt of blood is at your door; 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
You pine among your halls and towers ; 



38 TENNYSON 

The languid light of your proud eyes 
Is wearied of the rolling hours. 

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 

You know so ill to deal with time. 
You needs must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 

Are there no beggars at your gate. 
Nor any poor about your lands? 

O, teach the orphan-boy to read, 
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew; 

Pray heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 

THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 
New-year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the Maj^ mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 

so bright as mine; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and 

Caroline ; 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they 

say, 



THE MAY QUEEN 39 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 

wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 

break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 

garlands gay. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday, 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white. 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they 

say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never 

be; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that 

to me? 



40 TENNYSON 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer 

day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the 

Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from 

far away. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its 

wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 

livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and 
still, 



THE MAY QUEEN 41 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 

hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance 

and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, Vm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear. 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 
New-year ; 

To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest mer- 
riest day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

New-year's Eve. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother 
dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 

Then you may me low i' the mould and think no 
more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 

peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 

tree. 



42 TENNYSON 

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a 

merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel 

copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is 

on the pane. 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again; 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on 

high; 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook'll caw from the windy tall elm- 
tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 

And the swallow'ill come back again with summer 
o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 
grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of 

mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun '11 shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 

hill. 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the 

world is still. 



THE MAY QUEEN 43 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
waning light 

You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at 
night ; 

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 
cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass and the bul- 
rush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw- 
thorn shade, 

And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am 
lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you 
when you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the long and pleas- 
ant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive 
me now; 

You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere 
I go; 

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 
wild ; 

You should not fret for me, mother, you have an- 
other child. 

If 1 can I'll come again, mother, from out my rest- 
ing-place ; 

Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon 
your face; 

Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you 
say, 



44 / TENNYSON 

And be often, often with you when you think I'm 
far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night 

for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of 

the door, 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be 

growing green. 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor. 
Let her take 'em, they are hers ; I shall never garden 

more; 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush 

that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of migonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day 
is born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
year, 

So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
dear. 

Conclusion. 

I thoughL to pass away before, and yet alive I am; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of 
the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 
year! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the vio- 
let's here. 



THE MAY QUEEN 45 

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 

that blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long 

to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the 

blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will 

be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 

words of peace. 

O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silvery 

hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there! 
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver 

head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my 

bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all 

the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One 

will let me in ; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 

could be. 



46 TENNYSON 

For my desire is but to pass to Him that died 
for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
watch beat. 

There came a sweeter token when the night and 
morning meet; 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand 
in mine, 

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels 

call; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark 

was over all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 

roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call 

my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie 

dear ; ' 

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer 3 
here ; 

With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I 
felt resign'd, 

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not 

what was said; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all 

my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 



THE MAY QUEEN 47 

But you were sleeping ! and I said, 'It's not for them, 
it's mine.' 

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for 
a sign. 

And once again it came, and close beside the win- 
dow-bars, 

Then seem'd to go right up to heaven and die among 
the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I 

know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have 

to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go today; 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past 

away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to 
fret; 

There's many a worthier than I, would make him 
happy yet. 

If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his 
wife; 

But all these things have ceased to be, with my de- 
sire for life. 

O, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a 

glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 

know. 
And there I move no longer now. and there his 

light may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 



48 TENNYSON 

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this 

day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the 

sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and 

true — 
And what is life, that we should moan? why make 

we such ado? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while ^till you and Effie 

come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 

breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling and the weary 

are at rest. 

THE LOTOS-EATERS. 
'Courage!' he said, and pointed toward the land, 
'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon. 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream, 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 49 

From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flush'd ; and, dew'd with showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West; thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale; 

A land where all things always seem'd the same! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake. 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, 'We will return no more'; 
And all at once they sang, 'Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' 



50 TENNYSON 



CHORIC SONG, 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 

Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

Or night-dews on still waters between walls 

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful 

skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings. 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 
'There is no joy but calm!' — 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of 
things ? 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 51 



Lo! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing overmellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life; ah, why 
Should life all labor be? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 
In silence — ripen, fall, and cease: 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful 
ease. 



52 TENNYSON 



How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotos day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

VI 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears; but all hath sufFer'd change; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold, 

Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange. 

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes ever-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle? 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 53 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile; 

Tis hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 

Long labor unto aged breath, 

Sore tasks to hearts worn out by many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

VII 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly. 
How sweet — while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly — 
With half-dropt eyelid still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' thick-twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling 
Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the 
pine. 

VIII 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek; 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 



54 TENNYSON | 

Roll'd to starboard, roird to larboard, when the surge 
was seething free, 

Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath and keep it with an equal mind. 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 
hurl'd 

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 
lightly curl'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- 
ing world; 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted 
lands. 

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring 
deep and fiery sands. 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, 
and praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music centred in a dole- 
ful song 

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 
wrong, 

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are 
strong ; 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the 
soil. 

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring • 
toil, 

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; 

Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd 
— down in hell 



THE GOOSE 55 

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys 

dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 

shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave 

and oar; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 

more. 

THE GOOSE. 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 

Her rags scarce held together; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 

He utter'd rhyme and reason : 
'Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season.' 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 

A goose — 'twas no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 

And ran to tell her neighbors, 
And bless'd herself and cursed herself. 

And rested from her labours ; 



56 TENNYSON 

And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew plump and able-bodied, 
.Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder ; 
But ah! the more the white goose laid 
( It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there, 
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle; 

She shifted in her elbow-chair. 
And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

'A quinsy choke thy cursed note!* 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

'Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer.' 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat, 
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 

The goose flew this way and flew that, 
And fiU'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together. 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning: 

'So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning.' 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 67 

The wild wind rang from park and plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 

The blast was hard and harder. 
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder. 

And while on all sides breaking loose 

Her household fled the danger, 
Quoth she. The devil take the goose. 

And God forget the stranger!' 

MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea, 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their lord, 
King Arthur; then, because his wound was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
'The sequel of to-day unsoldiers all 
The goodliest fellowsh-ip of famous knights 



58 TENNYSON 

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 

They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 

Shall never more, at any future time, 

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. 

Walking about the gardens and the halls 

Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 

To rule once more — but let what will be be, 

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thott therefore take my brand Excalibur, 

Which was my pride; for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Rose from out the bosom of the lake. 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known. 

But now delay not; take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere; 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word/ 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 59 

Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparked keen with frost against the hilt; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw; but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
'Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
T heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag.' 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 
Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight; 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 



eO TENNYSON 

As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud: 

'And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable against himself? 
The king is sick and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 
Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the lake; 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all people, winning reverence: 
But how much honour and much fame were lost.' 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 61 

And so strode back slow to the wounded king. 

Then spoke Sir Arthur, breathing heavily: 
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
*I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ? 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 
Either from the lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence; 
But, if you spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.* 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great band 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an 

arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur; 



62 TENNYSON 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere, 
And lightly went the other to the king. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out; what is it thou hast heard, or seen?' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere,' 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
'My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were gone. 
Make broad my shoulders to receive my weight. 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.* 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 63 

And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the king, 
Muttering and murmuring in his ear, 'Quick, quick! 
I fear it is too late, anl I shall die.' 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold — and from them 

rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like the wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, 'Place me in the barge,' 



64 TENNYSON 

And to the barge they came. There those three 

queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the king, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his 

hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood; for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust; 
Or, clotted with points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the king; 
Not like the Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 65 

Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: 
The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt — 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' 



66 TENNYSON 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawr 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell ; 
At which the parson, sent to sleep with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted 'Good !' but we 
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; 
I know not ; but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud, as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn. 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
'There now — that's nothing!' drew a little back 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue. 
And so to bed, where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to tell the truth and stir the day. 
To me, methought, who waited with the crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 



ULYSSES 67 

'Arthur is come again: he cannot die.' 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — 'Come again, and thrice as fair;* 
And, further, inland, voices echoed — 'Come 
With all good things, and war shall be no more.' 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn 

ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known, — cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all, — 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch where thro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 



68 TENNYSON 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bounds of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail ; 
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with 

me, — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil. 
Death closes all; but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 



LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE 69 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the 

deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down ; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we 

are, — 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunlit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapour everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen, 



70 TENNYSON 

The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 
From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song ; 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong; 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong; 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring; 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set; 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings. 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 71 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid. 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips^ 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is 

early morn; 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon 

the bugle-horn. 

T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur- 
lews call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 
Locksley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 

sandy tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went 

to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 

west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the 
mellow shade. 



72 TENNYSON 

Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver 
braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a 

youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result 

of time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 

reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that 

it closed; 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 

could see, 
Saw the vision of the world and all the wonder that 

would be. — 

In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
robin's breast ; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself an- 
other crest ; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd 

dove ; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 

thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be 
for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute ob- 
servance hung. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 73 

And I said, 'My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets 

to thee.' 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and 
a light. 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the north- 
ern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden 

storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 

eyes — 

Saying, 'I have hid my feelings, fearing they should 

do me wrong ; 
Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin?' weeping, 'I 

have loved thee long.' 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his 

glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 

chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, past in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 

copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness 

of the spring. 



74 TENNYSON 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 

stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of 

I'le hps. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine 

no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, 

barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 
have sung, 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — 

to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 

than mine ! 

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day 
by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
pathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with 

a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 

spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than 

his horse. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 76 

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are 

glazed with wine. 
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, take his hand 

in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 

overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with 
thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- 
stand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee 
with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last 
embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 

living truth! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 

Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead 

of the fool! 

Well~'t is well that I should bluster !— Hadst thou 

less unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 

wife was loved. 



76 TENNYSON 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears 

but bitter fruit? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at 

the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of 

years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records of 

the mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 

knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perish'd ; sweetly did she speak 

and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was 

to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore? 
No — she never loved me truly ; love is love for 

evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth 

the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 

heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is 

on the roof. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 77 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art 

staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers and the shad- 
ows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

drunken sleep, 
To thy window'd marriage-pillows, to the tears 

that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the 'Never, never,' whisper'd by 

the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing 

of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to thy 

rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender 

voice will cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy 

trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival 

brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness 

not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his; it will be worthy of 

the two. 



78 TENNYSON 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 

daughter's heart. 

'They were dangerous guides the feelings — she her 
self was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer'd' — Perish in thy self- 
contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should 

I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 

days like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets 

overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I 

should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
man's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds 
are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

Honour feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 79 

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier 

page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous 

Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 

the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of 

my life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 

years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 

father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway near and 

nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a 

dreary dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 

him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 

throngs of men; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

something new ; 
That which they have done but earnest of the things 

that they shall do. 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see. 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be; 



80 TENNYSON 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 

magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 

costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 

rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 

central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind 

rushing warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the 

thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle- 
flags were furl'd 

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 
world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 

realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 
law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me 

left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 

the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 

out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from 

point to point; 



LOCKSLEY HALL 81 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a Hon, creeping 
nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing pur- 
pose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the 
process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like 

a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger 

on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more 

and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears 

a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness 

of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the 

bugle-horn. 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn. 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so 

slight a thing. 



82 TENNYSON 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain. 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 

Here at least, where Mature sickens, nothing. Ah, 

for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 

to beat, 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil- 

starr'd ; 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 

ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 

day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 

of Paradise 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 

trailer from the crag; 



LOCKSLEY HALL 83 

Droops the heavy blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy- 
fruited tree- 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 
of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in 

this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have 

scope and breathing space; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and 

they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 
lances in the sun; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- 
bows of the brooks. 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my 

words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

lower pains! 



84 TENNYSON 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun 

or dime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one 

by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward 

let us range, 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing 
grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 

younger day; 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age, — for mine I knew not, — help me as 
when life begun; 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
nings, weigh the sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not 

set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my 

fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me 

the roof-tree fall. 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 85 

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 

fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 

I go. 

'BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.' 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O, well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



TENNYSON 
SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS. 



And thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O, we fell out, I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears. 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O, there above the the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

2. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low. 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
Father, will come to thee soon; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
Father will come to thee soon; 



SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS 87 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. 

3. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O, hark, O, hear ! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying. 
Blow, bugle, answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

4. 
'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autumn-fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 



88 TENNYSON 

'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So ead, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

*Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly glows a glimmering square ; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

'Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more !' 

5. 

'O, Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south. 
Fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell thee. 

'O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

'O, Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

'O, were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died! 



SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS 89 

'Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 

Delaying as the tender ash delays 

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

'O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

'O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

'O, Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 

mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' 



Home they brought her warrior dead; 

She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry. 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

'She must weep or she will die.' 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 

Lightly to the warrior stept. 
Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 



90 TENNYSON 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears— 
'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 

7. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the sun. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they came; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears ; they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand; 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fallen themselves. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floors 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen; they struck; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain ; 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms. 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 

'Our enemies have fallen, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd 



RING OUT WILD BELLS 91 

With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

8. 
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye; 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd; 

I strove against the stream and all in vain; 

Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 

RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 

From "In Memoriam." 

cvi 
Ring out, wild bells,, to the wild sky, 

The flying cloud, the frosty light: 

The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



TENNYSON 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happ}' bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out of the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN 93 

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 
From "Maud." 
I 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 

II 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 

On a bed of daffodil sky. 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 

To faint in his light, and to die. 
Ill 
All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

IV 

I said to the lily, 'There is but one, 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone? 
She is weary of dance and play.' 

Now half to the setting moon are gone. 
And half to the rising day; 



94 TENNYSON 

Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

V 

I said to the rose, The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine, 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rosey 

'For ever and ever, mine.' 

VI 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 

As the music clash'd in the hall; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

VII 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

VlII 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; 



COME INTO THE GARDEN 95 

The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

IX 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

K 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dear; v 

She is coming, my life, my fate. 
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' 

And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;* 
The larkspur listens, T hear, I hear;' 

And the lily whispers, T wait.' 

XI 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead, 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



96 TENNYSON 

SONG OF THE BROOK. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till at last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing. 



SONG OF THE BROOK 97 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 



98 TENNYSON 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
WELLINGTON. 

I 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation; 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation; 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

II 
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those be wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

Ill 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long, long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

IV 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street, 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute! 
Mourn for the man of long- enduring blood, 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON 99 

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 

Whole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 

Our greatest yet with least pretence, 

Great in council and great in war, 

Foremost captain of his time, 

Rich in saving common-sense, 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fallen at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 

V 
All is over and done. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toll'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 
There he shall rest for ever 
Among the wise and the bold. 
Let the bell be toll'd, 
And a reverent people behold 
The towering car, the sable steeds. 



100 TENNYSON 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toU'd, 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame, 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name, 

To such a name for ages long, 

To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 

And ever-echoing avenues of song! 



'Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with 

priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?'— 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thus by sea. 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON 101 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 

To thee the greatest soldier comes; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

His foes were thine; he kept us free; 

O, give him welcome, this is he 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

And worthy to be laid by thee; 

For this is England's greatest son. 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun ; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day. 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labour'd rampart-lines, 

Where he greatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew, 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamour of men, 



102 TENNYSON 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings. 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down; 

A day of onsets of despair! 

Dash'd on every rocky square. 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden, jubilant ray, 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught such things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine. 

If love of country move thee there at all. 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON 103 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, 

Eternal honour to his name. 

VII 

A people's voice! we are a people yet, 

Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget, 

Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers, 

Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 

His Briton in blown seas and storming showers. 

We have a voice with which to pay the debt 

Of boundless love and reverence and regret 

To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 

And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ! 

O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 

And save the one true seed of freedom sown 

Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 

That sober freedom out of which there springs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings'. 

For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 

But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 

Remember him who led your hosts; 

He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; 

His voice is silent in your council-hall 

For ever; and whatever tempests lour 

For ever silent; even if they broke 

In thunder, silent; yet remember all 



104 TENNYSON 

He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power,- 
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life; 
Who never spoke against a foe; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right. 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

VIII 

Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honour shower'd all her star; 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story 
The path of duty was the way to glory. 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 



DUKE OF WELLINGTON 105 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story 

The path of duty was the way to glory. 

He, that ever following her commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands. 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he : his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory. 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 

With honour, honour, honour, honour to him. 

Eternal honour to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung. 

O peace, it is a day of pain 



106 TENNYSON 

For one upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain. 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity, 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will, 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us each with different powers. 

And other forms of life than ours, 

What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears; 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears ; 

The black earth yawns; the mortal disappears; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 



CHARGE OF LIGHT BRIGADE 107 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone, but nothing can bereave him, 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
God accept him, Christ receive him ! 
1852. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

I 
Half a league, half a league. 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
'Forward the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns !' he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

II 

'Forward the Light Brigade !' 
Was there a man dismay'd? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder'd. 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die. 



108 TENNYSON 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Ill 
Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

IV 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air , 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd. 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

V 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 
Volley'd and thunder'd; 



NORTHERN FARMER 109 

Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



NORTHERN FARMER. 
Old Style. 

I 
Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere 

aloan ? 
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse; whoy. Doctor's 

abean and agoan; 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, but I beant a 

fool; 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my 
rule. 

II 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's naw- 
ways true; 



no TENNYSON 

Naw sooort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a 

do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty 

year. 

Ill 
Parson's a bean bike wise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed. 
'The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you* to 'issen, my 

friend,' a said, 
An' a towd ma sins, an' 's toithe were due, an' I gied 

it in hond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 

IV 

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to 

larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne. 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' 

choorch an' staate, 
An* i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver again the raate. 

v 
An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally 

wur dead, 
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock' 

ower my 'ead, 
An' I niver know'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad 

summut to saay, 
An* I thowt a said what a owt to *a said, an* I 

coom'd awaay. 

1 — ou as in hour. 
2 — Cockchafer. 



NORTHERN FARMER 111 

VI 

Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun under- 

stond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. 

VII 

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says it easy an' 

freea : 
'The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,' 

says 'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 

'aaste ; 
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an* I 'a stubb'd 

Thurnaby waaste. 

VIII 

D* ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was 

not born then; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eard 'um about an* 

about, 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' 

rembled 'um out. 

IX 

Reaper's it wur ; fo* they fun *um theer a-laaid of 'is 

faace 
Down i' the woild 'enemies' afoor I coom'd to the 

plaace. 



1— Bittern. 
2 — Anemones. 



112 TENNYSON 

Noaks or Thimbleby— toaner' 'ed shot 'um as dead 

as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my 

aale. 

X 

Dubbut loook at the waaste; theer warn't not feead 

for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it 

now — 
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' 

feead, 
Fourscoor* yows upon it, an' some on it down i' 

seead."* 

XI 

Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' T meiin'd to *a stubb'd it 

at fall. 
Done it ta-year I meiin'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it 

an' all. 
If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, — 
Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond 

o' my oan. 

XII 

Do Godamoighty know what a 's doin' a — taakin* o' 

mea? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear, a' dear ! 
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas 

thutty year. 



3 — One or other. 
4 — ou as in hour. 
5— Clover. 



NORTHERN FARMER 113 

XIII 

A mowt 'a taan owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' 

sense. 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a niver mended a 

fence ; 
But Godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma 

now, 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to 

plow! 

XIV 

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a 

passin' boy, 
Says to thessen, naw doubt, 'What a man a bea 

sewer-loy !' 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin' fust a 

coom'd to the 'All; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty 

boy hall. 

XV 

Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a 
to wroite, 

For whoa 's to Iiowd the lond ater mea thot mud- 
dles ma quoit; 

Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weant niver give it to 
Joanes, 

Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the 
stoans. 

XVI 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is 

kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the divil's 

oan team. 



114 TENNYSON ' 

Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is 

sweet, 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to 

see it. 

XVII 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the 

aale? 
Doctor's a toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the owd 

taale ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor 

nor a floy; 
Git ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun 

doy. 

NORTHERN FARMER. 

New Style. 

I 
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters 

awaay ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em 

saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass 

for thy pains; 
Theer 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, nor in all thy 

brains. 

II 
Woa— theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yen's 

parson's ouse— 



NORTHERN FARMER 115 

Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man 

or a mouse? 
Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twenty to 

weeak/ 
Proputty, proputty — woa then, vvoa — let ma 'ear 

mysen speak, 

III 
Me an* thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin* o' 

thee; 
Thou 's bean talkin* to muther, an' she bean a-teUin' 

it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' 

parson's lass — 
Noa — thou '11 marry for luvv — an' we boath on us 

thinks tha an ass. 

IV 

Seea'd her to-daay goa by — Saaint's-daay — they was 

ringing the bells. 
She's a beauty, thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' 

gells, 
Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a beauty? — the 

flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty 

graws. 

V 

Do'ant be stunt ;' taake time. I knaws what maakes 

tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur 

a lad? 



1 — This week. 
2— Obstinate. 



116 TENNYSON 

But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma 

this: 
'Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny 

is!' 

VI 

An' I went wheer munny war ; an' thy muther coom 

to 'and, 
Wi' lots of munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty — I niver giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass 

as 'ant nowt? 

VII 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 

*e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle* her 

bread. 
Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver get 

hissen clear. 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd 

to the shere. 

VIII 

An' thin *e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity 

debt, 
Stook to his taail they did an' 'e ant got shut o' 

*em yet. 
An* 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 

'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd' yowe; fur, Sammy, *e 

married fur luvv. 



2— Earn. 

3 — Or, fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying on its back in 
the furrow. 



NORTHERN FARMER 117 

IX 

Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er 

munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither, as they've good right to do. 
Couldn I luw thy muther by cause o' 'er munny 

laa'id by? 
Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor for it; 

reason why. 

X 

Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the 

lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boath on us 

thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as near as mays 

nowt^ — 
Woa then, wiltha? dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as 

owt.' 

XI 

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' 

the fence! 
Gentlemen burn! what's gentleman burn? is it shil- 

lins an' pence? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an,' Sammy, I'm 

blest 
If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's 

the best. 

XII 

Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks *nto 'cases an' 
steals, 

1 — Makes nothing. 

2- -The flies are as fierce as anything. 



118 TENNYSON 

Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their 

regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's 

to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp 

is bad. 

XIII 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy 

lot. 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny 

was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is munny was 

'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd issen dead, an' 'e died a good 

un, 'e did. 

XIV 

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out 

by the 'ill! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the 

mill; 
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to 

see; 
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to 

thee. 

XV 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to 

stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to 

Dick.— 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 119 

Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 

'im saay — 

Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter 

awaay. 

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and 

the plains, — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who 

reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which He 

seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not 

live in dreams? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and 

limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from 

Him? 

Dark is the world to thee ; thyself art the reason why, 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 
T am r? 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest 

thy doom. 
Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour 

and gloom. 

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with 

Spirit can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands 

and feet. 



120 TENNYSON 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His 
voice. 

Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool, 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent 
in a pool; 

'FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL.' 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower — but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 

RIZPAH. 

17— 

I 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and 

sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, 'O mother, come out 

to me !' 
Why should he call me to-night, when he knows 

that I cannot go? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full 

moon stares at the snow. 

II 
We should be seen, my dear; they wauld spy us 
out of the town. 



RIZPAH 121 

The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing 

over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by 

the creak of the chain. 
And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself 

drenched with the rain. 

Ill 

Anything fallen again? nay — what was there left to 

fall? 
I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, 

I have hidden them all. 
What am I saying? and what are youf do you come 

as a spy? 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls 

so must it lie. 



Who let her in? how long has she been? you — what 

have you heard? 
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a 

word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their 

spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to 

darken my eyes. 

V. 

Ah— you, that have lived so soft, what should you 

know of the night, 
The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost 

and the fright? 



122 TENNYSON 

I have done it, while you were asleep — you were 

only made for the day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — and now you 

may go your way. 

VI 

Nay — for it's kind of you, madam, to sit by an old 

dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour 

of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out 

to die. 
'They dared me to do it,' he said, and he never has 

told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he 

was but a child — 
'The farmer dared me to do it,' he said; he was al- 
ways so wild — 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy — he never 

could rest. 
The King should have made him a soldier, he would 

have been one of his best. 

VII 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they 

never would let him be good; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he 

swore that he would; 
And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when 

all was done 
He flung it among his fellows— 'I'll none of it,' said 

my son. 



RIZPAH 123 



I came into court to the judge and the lawyers. I 

told them my tale, 
God's own truth — ^but they kill'd him, they kill'd him 

for robbing the mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had al- 
ways borne a good name — 
To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — isn't 

that enough shame? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! but they set 

him so high 
That all the ships of the world could stare at him, 

passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible 

fowls of the air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him 

and hang'd him there. 

IX 

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my 

last good-bye; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 'O mother!' 

I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something 

further to say. 
And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced 

me away. 

X 

Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy 
that was dead, 



124 TENNYSON 

They seized me and shut me up; they fasten'd me 

down on my bed. 
'Mother, O mother!' — he call'd in the dark to me 

year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me — ^you know that 

I couldn't but hear ; 
And then at the last they found I had grown so 

stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the creatures had 

worked their will. 

XI 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone 

was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you 

call it a theft?— 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones 

that had laughed and had cried — 
Theirs? O, no! they are mine — not theirs — they had 

moved in my side. 



Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 

'em, I buried 'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the 

churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of 

judgment 'ill sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I laid him in 

holy ground. 



RIZPAH 125 

XIII 

They would scratch him up — they would hang him 

again on the cursed tree. 
Sin? O, yes, we are sinners, I know — let all that 

be, 
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's goodwill 

toward men — 
'Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord' — let me 

hear it again; 
'Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffering.' Yes, 

O, yes! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder — the Saviour 

lives but to bless. 
He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst 

of the worst, 
And the first may be last — I have heard it in church 

— and the last may be first. 
Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must 

know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind and the 

shower and the snow. 

XIV 

Heard, have you ? what ? they have told you he never 

repented his sin. 
How do they know it? are they his mother? are you 

of his kin? 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the 

downs began. 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 

'ill moan like a man? 



126 TENNYSON 

XV 

Election, Election, and Reprobation — it's all very 

well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find 

him in hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has 

look'd into my care, 
And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, 

I know not where. 

XVI 

And if he be lost — but to save my soul, that is all 

your desire — 
Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be 

gone to the fire? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may 

leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you are just as hard 

as a stone. 

XVII 

Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean 
to be kind, 

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice 
in the wind — 

The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to call 
in the dark. 

And he calls to me now from the church and not 
from the gibbet — for hark! 

Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shak- 
ing the walls — 

Willy— the moon's in a cloud Good-night. I 

am going. He calls. 



RIZPAH 127 

CROSSING THE BAR. 
Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For tho* from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



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